


L'amour (ReVamped)

by The_Angry_Turtle



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, BDSM, Breathplay, Choking, Choking on that dick, Debauchery, Dominant Kylo Ren, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Force Choking, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Masochism, Physical Abuse, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sadisim, Shameless Smut, That is what you shall be called, Tooke is my favorite star wars creature, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26922109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Angry_Turtle/pseuds/The_Angry_Turtle
Summary: Depravity shouldn’t be this exquisite. Yet it is. Yet. It. Is. There is nothing more ravishing than moral turpitude.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	1. L'amour

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING, THIS FICLET CONTAINS GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF SEX AND TORTURE. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU AND ONLY YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE IF YOU CHOOSE TO READ THIS FIC. IT IS DARK, DANK AND NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART.
> 
> With that out of the way, I do hope you enjoy the story. I published this months ago, hated it from chapter two on and decided to rewrite it. It is going to be revamped and more will be added while some things are removed.

Let’s start it all again. I’ll fuck you up and you can play pretend. Make up brand new rules so you’ll be sure to stay. Place you within my very skin and let you take it all away—make the pain go away. I adore you, worship you and I know, oh I know, you love me too.

* * *

You didn’t want this. Shouldn’t want this. Yet the body had its own way of being persuasive and those laced thighs held that evidence. Debauchery disguised as innocence. White to show virtue and oh, what a beautiful disgusting lie it is. The “Please no” and “Please don’t” that leave beautifully busted lips, are really a yes in disguise. If said aloud, that vulgar secret whispered wouldn’t change a thing. Not a god damned thing. Those imploring screams for mercy won’t be given, for there is no mercy where you’re going.

“Tooke.” That baritone rang out, oh so husky and smooth causing you to flinch and you’re eyes to waver. No, not this time. _No matter how enthralling, don’t give in._ Please. Those thoughts dance within, tumbling the grey matter of your mind. “Tooke…” Black velvet, that voice was too sweet sounding for a monster. Eyes lower to the floor, you’ve lost. Another battle for willpower that ended in vain. It left that bitter taste--completely coated your tongue as you swallowed. You crawl on bruised knees toward that sick sadist you pretend ~~not~~ to love, wincing as the hard wood adds to the purple collection. Large fingers intertwine within tangled locks, nails gently grazing your scalp. How could such rough hands be so tender? Hands that have touched the blood of innocents—slaughtered like lambs by a beast. His warm hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing the crusted blood that stains your lower lip and smearing it down your chin.

The small wet appendage that calls your mouth home wraps around his thumb; has those morbid desires take control—and the mewl that comes with the slurping is all that is good in the world. He allows himself to pull away so that he could set free the ache that hangs between his legs. “Go on.” He purrs, voice deep with lust, fingers gripping your hair tighter.

He shouldn’t look so good—violence wrapped in a pretty bow. His musk shouldn’t be so intoxicating, mingling with the arousal in the air. His taste shouldn’t be so delectable—wine laced with poison. Blood turned lipstick staining his ivory skin—drinking down the drug that is him.

Little sounds of pleasure leave your chest and heaving breaths tickle his skin as you gives tentative licks to his cock. He grunts, hand tugging your hair impatiently. A warning that goes unheeded causing your head to snap forward to choke on his large cock and gurgle protests into his soft curls. He holds you there against your will, relishing in the feeling of you struggling against him. Loud gasps disrupt the air around them as your head is shoved back only to be pushed forward again to gag and whine.

Over and over do the vulgar noises slip past those sealed lips as his cock plows into your mouth. There is no restraint as he fucks your face, groaning as he sees the way his cock stretches your throat and puffy red lips. He slaps you between his wild thrusts leaving red splotches that will turn to hues of blue and purple. You’re an object for his pleasure, and you can deny it all you want--he knows, he KNOWS you fucking crave it. “That’s it, whore, take it.” And oh, do you take it; take it like a damn champ. Swallowing him down until the bile rises and your nose is mashed against him.

You gag. You ‘glug’. You gasp and wretch—a harmonious symphony all for him. It’s so sudden when he rips you from his cock and forces your head back so he could see you properly. Watch the tears kiss your lashes before falling. You are gulping down air, chest heaving and hiccupping. “Open.” He growls, hand going to squeeze his own cock. The second your lips fully expose the cavern of your mouth, he spits. It’s thick, sticky and sweet. “Swallow.” His order is obeyed as quickly as it is given. There is no time for a proper breath before you’re crying around him again, begging for sweet oxygen. His eyes are rolling back, the sensation of your screams going straight through his dick and into his brain--Oh so tantalizing. He wills the force to hold your throat with a gentle squeeze, he relishes in how it adds to the tightness his cock feels. A panic he loves to see in your eyes as you struggle further to breathe—hands clawing at his thighs with abandon. Slowly he squeezes and loosens the grip the force has over your throat, working in time with the slowed pace of his hips.

Your breaths come in gurgled gasps before it’s all cut off completely. “Fuuuck. So good, Tooke. So goood.” His praise is muffled by the ringing in your ears, by the black spots that dance around blurred vision-- breathing is completely constricted, and your throat stuffed by his cock. Oh, Maker. Oh, it’s perfection. His ember eyes gaze down to watch you struggle. You’re messy with mascara streaked down your cheeks, pink stained drool dripping onto your breasts, eyes glazed over and face red from the lack of air. He’s close—desperate to fill your mouth with his essence. Knows it will give you pleasure, better than any cock could. No one could get you off like he could…willingly or not. You want it, the toxic, delicious taste that is solely him. Decadent--a delicacy you’ve learned to crave over time. Lungs burn, begging for sweet oxygen that you know won’t come until his finish.

So close, sooooo very close, you can feel it in the way his abdomen becomes taught and how his thighs shake. It’s empowering, knowing you’re able to cause this man, this KING held on a pedestal to break down into nothing but a grunting, whimpering mess. “You gonna swallow it? Tooke, you better fuck—” Your throat spasms of it’s own accord, trying to milk him for all he’s worth—nothing could be more valuable than his cum.

There is nothing better than finally being able to breathe and having the blood rush back to your head. It makes you dizzy and soaks the cotton of your silk panties. And he knows it, he can smell the sweetness of your arousal—knows it’s dripping. “Get up.” He growls, teeth bared, and eyes blown black. You obey, stumbling to stay straight as your lungs burn with each gulp of air. “Such a good girl.” He breathes, reaching to tuck those tangled locks behind your ear. His tender touch does little to comfort you to what is about to come, but you don’t turn away. You keep his gaze and lick your lips, hand going to wipe away the pink tinted spit from your jaw and mouth. “Come.” The whispered word lingers, just like the leather pants discarded on the floor as he drags you ~~willingly~~ unwillingly to the other room…


	2. Baise Moi

Seething guttural growls and grunts tantalize your mind. All you can hear, feel and bare witness to, is him. All of him. Sweet and fucked up him. And you relish in it. In him. This vulgar fantasy of love is all that you have—though you know, he doesn’t even know the meaning of the word. Depravity shouldn’t be this exquisite. Yet it is. Yet. It. Is. There is nothing more ravishing than moral turpitude.

He's a drug that you love yo swallow, and beneath the pleasure he brings, there is nothing but pain. Yet, you can’t help but crawl to him whenever he beckons. That self-destruction you’ve learned to be dependent on too hard to shake—oh the way his fists can make you feel oh-so=alive. It makes you want to conceal, to keep secret the crimes painted upon your face by the time he has finished ruining you. You adore it though, and he knows it—there is no hiding your thoughts from him, you fucking love the abuse and damage he causes.

Chants of his name and want for more swirl about in his brain; deep within the gray matter to the point it is all he can hear. Thoughts snuffed out. He loves it. Loves how your mouth stays slack, but he can still hear every little thing you think. That you crave.

Vertebra beautifully arched.

A wicked grin painted on a handsome face.

Nimble digits dance about your exposed throat. It is exquisite to see your vision spot and fade, though the fear and panic is still there. A tumultuous combination. Lungs begging for air, burning for it. You’re sputtering, drooling, and writhing. You should know better. You should. You Should. Know better than to give the sadist above you the satisfaction he craves. Fingers force their way into your mouth, adding to the lack of oxygen. Your lips begin to tingle, eyes watering and dainty hands going to claw at the silken sheets that rest beneath your skin.

“POP”

The only sound you can hear through the murky thoughts and perception your brain creates. Your gasps not even registering as your eyes squeeze shut. Only a moment. Just a moment. If only for a moment.

That voice purrs, velvet and deep, “You want more?” He knows exactly what you need. What you want. What you silently beg for. Your continuation of ragged breaths through ruse coloured lips and pleading eyes are answer enough. And who was he do deny you? That large paw of a hand comes to grip your jaw tightly, thumb pushing into the temporomandibular joint until your voice pierces the air with an ugly screech—the opportunity too beautiful to pass up as his wad of spit meets your tongue and slides down your throat.

“You’re a dirty little fuck, aren’t you Tooke.”

He knows you are. Knows he’s the pain and misery that you crave. Oh yes, he knows all to well.

Fingertips barely graze your skin, tickling up and up and up. Thighs tremble. Eyes squeeze shut. He shows no mercy when it comes to his needs. It’s a sacred place, untouched and untainted by his darkness. But now, now that purity will be gone and there is not a damn thing you can do about it.

Bone dry. He slips within your tight depths without any preparation. It’s wild. Ungentle. Those hands of his nothing but helter-skelter.

Your eyes water, teeth biting into flesh to add to the gorgeous crimson already painted upon your lips with a delicious copper flavour. Those blunt nails hit deep within as another finger is added, causing more pain, but he knows you can take more. You can always take more. Who were you to deny him? He was your God. Your savior.

Another finger added, and you clench—feels like you’re trying to suck his fingers. Another thrust in and another thrust out. Over and over does he use his own body to sodomise, to mark you as his. You’re ruined for any other man. No one else would want you. No one else would dare treat you like such a treasure as he would.


	3. Frape Moi

Cauterized flesh shouldn’t be so decadent. Cries of agony shouldn’t be so savory. This shouldn’t bring further excitement. No, it really shouldn’t. But it does.

Pain tinted with his name each time the tumultuous blade teases your skin is a symphony he wants on repeat. It isn’t enough to maim you, not really, just enough to brand you. Mark you as his and only his. To add to the collection of burns and scars he has already artistically placed upon your sweet skin. Just a reminder of what COULD happen.

Teeth glint with malice and lust as the monster within grins down at you. Eyes blown wide at the sight of you drenched in fear-induced sweat. Body shaking. Eyes rolling back. Jaw slack. Hands seized seemingly forever clawing at the wall that rests behind your back. He has placed you meticulously, precisely where he wants you and he will keep you there, force be damned. Exhaustion of doing so be damned.

You’re his little doll to do with as he pleases. You love it. Love it. Love it. Want nothing more than to please and worship and grovel at his feet.

Sizzle.

Your nerves have started to go numb, there is no more pain where he has allowed that red blade to whisper against your skin.

POP.

Your jaw drops in a silent scream, too focused on the torment to remember how to work your vocal chords.

Maniacal.

He can’t even hide the glee in his eyes as the fleeting sound of his short-lived laugh reverberates in the air.

Oh, no.

Oh, no.

It shouldn’t feel this good.

It shouldn’t bring forth arousal.

Shouldn’t.

Shouldn’t.

But it does. Oh it does. And there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.


	4. La fin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, here we are at the end~  
> I hope this was worthy of those of you who read this. I'm not very good at smut, but I did put forth a lot of effort, editing and caffeine into this! My main writing medium is angst or anything emotional, so this was a big challenge. 
> 
> Well, I'll see you in the next story!

It’s another night. White stockings clipped to the white laced garter that rests above your cunt—nothing to hide your desire from him. Hair brushed just so. Lipstick painted on your lips with precision that would make any artist in the galaxy jealous. Mascara brushed through your lashes, waiting to mix with your tears.  
It’s another night where he gets to pound you senseless, make you forget your own fucking name. Not that he needed to try hard—you’ve forgotten it long ago when he deemed you to be ‘his Tooke’. A night full of grunts, moans and screams of agony. You look forward to it. Anticipation is killing you. Your body now craves the sensation of burning flesh, the morbid need for harsh slaps and oh, ooh, how you desperately want to lose all control.  
Pleasure turned into pain. Pain turned into pleasure. With him there is no in-between. No gray area—just one extreme or another. The hallucination of this ‘love’ wasn’t healthy by any means, but, you just couldn’t walk away. You didn’t want to. Wouldn’t dare. In some sick sense of the word, maybe you did love him—maybe it was real and not some illusion you make yourself believe.

Sure, he isn’t a normal man by any means—he’s a fucking monster and admits it proudly. You love it. Love it. Love it. Those kisses nothing but acid rain to your skin. Hands that bruise but can bring forth so much pleasure. He is the Leviathan to your sea of conflicted feelings. You wouldn’t have it any other way. You adore him—enjoy being his plaything; that entertainment he needs nightly. He makes your mind slip from your safe reality. He’s your God and you’d gladly get on your knees to beg for redemption.  
You’re not the only one though, oh no, no no. He worships the ground you walk on, gives you deranged forms of praise upon your pedestal of shame he’s placed you on. For him, it’s easier than stealing candy from a baby—the way he draws you in and keeps you trapped. You’re a moth to his flame. Though he wouldn’t ever admit this.  
Your scarred body is your temple, a temple adorned with burns, bruises and bitemarks. Little reminders that bring you comfort—that you are forever his. He’s just as marked, your nails raking along his back makes sure of that; biting anywhere you can when he’s too lost in the throws of passion. You love looking at them, it shows he’s yours just as much as you are his. They’re tattoos neither of you can erase and you wear them with pride. And you give it to him, give up all of yourself to him—for him—for you know, he would never take it for granted.

FIN~


End file.
